


Compromising Virtue

by Kittyknowsthings



Series: Complementing Baggage [2]
Category: Deep Dish Nine - Fandom, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ableism, Family Drama, Gen, M/M, Psychiatric Abuse, experimental story structure, mind the trigger warnings, non-graphic rape of a minor, selective mutism, selective mutism turned traumatic mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings
Summary: The Ghemors are still reeling from Iliana's departure when an inquiry to Alon from an unexpected quarter threatens to shatter their already fraught dynamic fully.Prequel to Complementing Baggage.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a LOT darker than Complementing Baggage.
> 
> You can find a guide to reading it if you're triggered by non-con elements here:  
> https://kittyknowsthings.tumblr.com/post/170110128932/guidetocv
> 
> If you need to know more about any of the other trigger warnings, come hit me up in the comments to the Prelude, which is pretty clean, or on my tumblr.
> 
> Shoutout to Steerpike13713, who changed the course of both this story and the upcoming sequel with a single comment!
> 
> Updates will come on Thursdays.

Mrs Douglas does not need to ask how her husband’s day went when she returns home.

He is slumped in his chair and every line of his body screams exhaustion.

His hair, usually well-combed, is a mess, as if he’d run his hand through it over and over again. He probably has.

Before him, on the table, lies a list of names and phone numbers, all crossed out.

He looks up at her, takes in her puffy red eyes.

“No luck either, huh?”

It’s barely a question.

She shakes her head. 

“They just about shoved me out the door the moment I said the word Adigeon. How’s Sarina?” She asks.

“Still watching those Cardassian trial broadcasts, scribbling away in her notebook.” He pauses, for a moment. “I think all our talk of lawyers is stressing her out too much.”

She stares at her husband, can hardly believe what she is hearing. 

“But we can’t just give up! They hurt our little girl! And they’ll continue to hurt others until someone stops them!”

He takes a visible breath before he speaks. 

“I’m starting to run out of vacation days, and you can’t continue to leave your clients hanging this much if you want to keep them.”

That is undeniably true.

She hates that it is.

He softens, a little, a wealth of pain in his eyes.

“I hate the idea, too, but we may have to prioritize her recovery just now.”

Mrs Douglas all but deflates.

“I’d hoped this could give her closure.”

“So did I.”

They sit in silence until the slight creak of the door. 

“Hi sweetheart, did you have a good day?” Mrs Douglas asks her daughter as soon as she enters, notebook clutched in her hand, and tries not to wince at how forced her cheer sounds to her own ears.

“You hungry? We could pop a Pizza in the oven.” There, that didn’t sound like it came from a commercial. Much.

Sarina says nothing, but that was to be expected.

She has not said a single word to them or anyone else since they picked her up from that thrice-damned facility.

What she does is open the notebook, turn pages until she has reached the one she wants, and put it on the table.

She taps the page firmly.

A name, an address, a phone number - in Cardassia? 

“Baby, what is this? Did you see this person on TV?” Mr Douglas asks. 

Sarina nods, grabs a pen, writes LAWYER underneath in large capital letters.

Mrs Douglas feels her eyes and nose burn again. Their precious girl is trying to help them, when they should be the ones to help her.

If only they knew how.

“You think we should contact this Alon Ghemor for your case?” She asks, dubiously.

Sarina nods. Flips back. Her notebook is filled with tables, drawn neatly with a ruler, comparing the trials she has been watching. She points at specific data points at a speed that her parents can barely follow, but that seem to amount to her thinking this man is the best.

This must have been hours of work, and Mrs Douglas hates to discourage her, so she tries to do it gently.

“Honey, this is very impressive, and he seems very competent, but he’s in Cardassia. And criminal law. I don’t think …” It’s her husband who cuts her off.

“We’ll try.”

“What?”

“I’ll call him. Tomorrow. Worst he can do is say no.”

Her husband fixes her with a stare, practically begging her not to object, and now that she thinks about it, she agrees. If nothing else, they need to show Sarina they are taking her seriously.

It’s the least they can do.


	2. Patrick

_“Stop crying.”_  
_He sniffs, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes trying to get the tears under control._  
_“It will not get you what you want,” the doctor adds._  
_He wasn’t trying to make them do anything. He wasn’t. He is just sad._  
_“You must give it up.”_  
_He flinches at the pronoun, thinks HIM as loud as he can, knows he cannot correct the doctor or it will only get worse._  
_“This is necessary for your continued recovery, Patrick. Some discomfort is to be expected. Don’t you want to get better? To live with your brother?”_  
_Of course he wants to, but he still doesn’t understand why that means he has to give up his teddy bear. His niece has a teddy bear, too. They had a lovely adventure together._  
_He snaps. “You’re a doctor! You’re supposed to take care of me! Don’t you want me to be happy?”_  
_“That’s a stupid question, Patrick.”_

 

When Alon Ghemor returns from his working lunch with conservator Kovat and Archon Makbar, the sound of his assistant's voice stops him in his tracks.  
  
Selta Mucok has adopted the soothing tone of voice she reserves for his most upset of clients, and she is speaking Federation Standard. An odd combination.  He waits for a moment, loathe to interrupt her without knowing more, and strains his ears. There, a longer pause - the lack of audible response tells him she must be on the phone and he can walk in without upsetting something delicate.  
  
He sets a small package of food for her on her desk and throws her a questioning look.  
  
She excuses herself on the phone, takes it down, and covers the microphone with her hand before switching to rapid Kardasi,  
  
"Man by the name of Douglas, Federation. He wants to hire you for a medical malpractice suit."  
  
"Medical Malpractice?" He repeats incredulously.  
  
Selta nods.  
  
"I think you should hear him out," She says, but she says it softly instead of in her usual, business-like demeanor.  
  
"Put him through, then. Let's see how much of my language lessons I still remember."  
  
Alon steels himself for a moment before picking up his phone.  
  
He does have to ask Mr Douglas to slow down a bit once or twice, but otherwise understands him well enough. While he takes notes and listens as the man outlines the situation he is simultaneously wracking his brain, trying to figure out who among his contacts could have possibly mentioned him as a skilled attorney to a man in the Federation.  
  
He is, in fact, certified to practice there, regularly renewing his license, but that is usually merely a formality - his standard clients will trust him more if they know he will also be able to represent them should they get in trouble abroad - He has never had to use it.  
  
"Mr Douglas," He finally says gently. "This is not usually my field of expertise ..." He says, and, remembering the imploring look on Selta’s face, pauses. He trusts her judgment.  
  
Mr Douglas fills the silence.  
  
"Yes, I know. I still don't know what my daughter was thinking."  
  
Alon blinks, incredulous - The girl, according to what he has heard, is thirteen years old and has even less reason to know anything about him or his skill set than her father.  
  
"You are telling me your daughter chose me?" He asks.  
  
It is so absurd a thought it must be true.  
  
"Yes. Sarina had this whole set of spreadsheets where she'd taken notes on what must have been about a hundred trials, I barely understood what she was analysing." He gives a small chuckle. "She's a lot smarter than me, that one."  
  
Alon cannot help but be intrigued at that.  
  
"I am not making any promises," He says, enunciating the words carefully to make sure he will not be misunderstood, and hears an audible inhale on the other line.  
  
The man had been expecting to be shot down outright - and still called, presumably because the girl had asked him to. Such devotion to his daughter was ... positively Cardassian, and only affirms his choice.  
  
"But if you send me the pertinent paperwork, I will look it over."  
  
"Of course, of course. Thank you!"  
  
"Don't thank me yet," He hastily reminds the man.  
  
"You're at least willing to consider it. That's more than anyone else was willing to give us, and the statute of limitations ... We were about to give up hope." His voice shakes a bit, as if he is fighting tears, when he repeats: "Thank you. Truly."  
  
They quickly settle on the specifics, and the man thanks him no less than three more times before he finally manages to hang up the phone.  
  
Then he stops for a moment and wonders what the hell just happened.  
  
He considers calling Selta in, but soon decides to go out to her instead, knowing she'd let her food get cold otherwise.  
  
There's a mug of tea waiting for him. Of course there is. She knows him well.  
  
He takes the mug with quiet thanks, wraps his hands around it and takes a few sips while collecting his thoughts.  
  
Selta, in the meanwhile, says nothing, just looks at him with an open expression, not demanding, merely requesting information.  
  
"I told him I'd consider it" He says,  
  
She gives him a grateful smile.  
  
He waits, lets silence hang between them for a bit - He wants to gain her perspective, but does not wish to influence or constrain her by asking a specific question.  
  
She gives him a smirk and a raised eyebrow, telling him she knows exactly what he is doing, then indulges him.  
  
"I let him talk for a bit - he sounded like he really needed it. And what he said about that place ... Crell Moset would have been right at home there."  
  
That is not what he expected to hear, but he does not know what he expected instead.  
  
When he returns to his own office, he forces himself to return to the files of all his current clients, but they all fail to hold his attention for long - given the time of the year, and the familial tension it would inevitably bring, he had kept his workload deliberately lower.  
  
The few matters of arbitration are all already practically settled - at least as far as they can be until the next meeting - and the one actual court case he is currently working on is a minor case of embezzlement, the trial scheduled for the next day, the details of both confession and verdict have already been hammered out at lunch, and all last-minute coaching of the offender will have to wait until tomorrow.  
  
There is not much for him to do but mentally prepare himself for the image he will put on for the camera tomorrow.  
  
That, again, makes him think of Sarina Douglas, who has apparently picked him based on the very trial broadcasts that should, in theory, show the least of his competence - as nestor, he is rarely requires to say more than a word or five and sit next to his client while controlling his facials expression carefully. It appears he has not been careful enough - unless someone has influenced her. But to what end?  
  
Or was he reading too much into it? Was this, perhaps, the attempt of a traumatized girl to see how far her parents would be willing to go for her after her ordeal?  
  
He finally decides to read up on the laws and regulations around malpractice, get the lay of the land, and even before he is done, he has received an electronic copy of all medical records pertaining to Sarina Douglas' treatment before, during, and after her stay at the Adigeon Retreat.  
  
Alon  gives those a skim, as well, and then a second, more thorough read of what seemed most relevant and boggles - he cannot understand why no lawyer the Douglases had contacted were willing to take up the case, and they had been searching for a while. The time pressure, should he take the case, would be immense.  
  
He rifles through his folders for his certificate, enters the number into the Federation court database, grateful they'd made the switch to an all-digital system a few years back, and is rewarded with access to all available files on the Adigeon facility.  
  
Despite the convenience, he cannot help being horrified at how easily he had accessed all this information, how freely available the Federation made it to anyone with a law certificate or only a little criminal energy - depositions, trial transcripts, all that had made it onto the public case record, dragged out into the light for the whole world to see, so different from the legal process he was used to, where everything was negotiated behind closed doors, and the only things that would make it onto the record were those deemed useful, educational to the public.  
  
The first malpractice suit against the medical team at the facility had been filed fourteen ago, The plaintiff had been the younger brother of the patient in question, and the deposition tells a story that makes Alon's blood run cold. On a professional level, he can also not help a wince - the story had been all but gushing out of the man, apparently glad to be able to share his story, giving the defendant's lawyers far too much ammunition.  
  
If he has learned anything from his research into Malpractice cases, it is that cases are usually won or lost during the depositions.

 

>  
> 
>    Q: What made you decide to place your brother in the Adigeon Retreat in the first place?  
>    
>      A: Well, you gotta understand I had no idea I had a brother in the first place until my mother killed herself and left us a note saying that her and my Dad locked up their eldest child somewhere because they were too ashamed of him. I won't repeat the words she used to describe why - I don't think she meant anything bad by them, y'know, just a sign of her age, but I know better.  
>    
>      I had vague memories of what I thought was an imaginary friend, and that was it.  
>    
>      So I went for a visit cause well, it seemed like the thing to do.  
>    
>      It was awkward, and it took me a while to get used to his quirks, but y'know, he's my brother, and I wanted to do better by him than our parents had. My little girl took to him immediately, my wife too, so we did some research - we wanted to figure out how to bring him home, you know, found him a carer and everything, but the people at the assisted living facility he’d been living at so far were still skeptical if he could deal with the transition after all this time.  
>    
>      That Adigeon place seemed to be a Godsend, promising improvement.  
>    
>      Instead he came outta there a terrible mess. We brought him home anyway - he couldn't stay at his former home with his new issues - but well, it's hard, and expensive.

The deposition of the man's attending physician did not alleviate the nausea - the patient had been talked of as more of an object than a person, and obviously treated accordingly.  
  
The cross-examination of the plaintiff's medical witness, however, had finally revealed how shrewd the Retreat's legal team truly was.

 

>   
>      MR CARTER: So it is your conclusion that the worsening in the patient condition was due to a lack in the standard of care?  
>    
>      DR MARTINSEN: Yes.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: And you believe that that is the only possible explanation?  
>    
>      DR MARTINSEN: Given that his deterioration perfectly coincided with his stay at ...  
>    
>      MR GREEN: Objection!  
>    
>      THE COURT: Approach the bench, please.  
>    
>      MR GREEN: The question called for speculation!  
>    
>      MR CARTER: I can reword my question more specifically. We intend to argue that there is not sufficient evidence that the patient's deterioration was caused by his treatment in the Adigeon Facility.  
>    
>      THE COURT: Sustained, then.  
>    
>      (Counsel returns to trial tables)  
>    
>      MR CARTER: Refresh my memory, what were his symptoms upon his release from the facility?  
>    
>  The plaintiff, upon his cross-examination, had been tired and ill-prepared, and the Lawyers had struck again.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: How long have you know the staff of the facility your brother lived in before his stay at the Adigeon Retreat?  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: About a year now.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: Do you believe that is long enough to judge whether they are qualified?  
>    
>      MR GREEN: Objection  
>    
>      THE COURT: Overruled. I will allow the question.  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: They always made a capable impression to me.

Alon has no certainty on Mr Michaels tone of voice, but he still would have bet a sizable amount of money that he had sounded unsure. Upon that, the Lawyer had changed tactics, leaving this answer hanging the air.

 

>  MR CARTER: I understand your brother moved in with you upon his return from the Adigeon Retreat?  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: Yes, he did. His old home couldn't take him anymore, with his anxiety so much worse.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: So he was already showing the symptoms you described?  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: Yes.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: So you came to the conclusion that his stay had caused them.  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: Yes.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: Have you considered alternate explanations?  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: Like what?  
>    
>      MR CARTER: I understand your brother has some trouble with, how shall I put it, emotional regulation.  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS Yeah, he does.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: Among those troubles there is also a problem in coping with changes?  
>    
>      MR MICHAELS: A bit?  
>    
>      MR CARTER: Could his increased anxiety then have been the result of  the transition instead?  
>    
>      MR GREEN: Objection!  
>    
>      THE COURT: Overruled.  
>    
>      MR CARTER: You did mention that his needs now outweighed the capacity of his old home, so he did not only have to cope with the transition back there from the Adigeon Retreat, but also from there to your home?  
>    
>      MR GREEN: Objection! Those are leading questions!  
>    
>      THE COURT: Sustained.

 

 He should admire the interrogations that would have done any agent of the Obsidian Order proud on a technical level, he supposed - the manipulation both of those sitting in the witnesses chair and the jury had been masterful.

Instead he just feels vaguely nauseated.  
  
The physician defendant, too, had been coached to within an inch of his life - he presented the image of a compassionate care provider rather convincingly.

>  MR GREEN: So you maintain that the standard of care was upheld?  
>   
>     DOCTOR YOUNG: Yes, I do. This does not, however, mean that I do not understand what drove Mr Michaels to such desperate lengths as to initiate a lawsuit. The situation must be very frustrating for him, and the financial strain of caring for Mr Michaels the elder must be considerable. It truly is quite a tragedy.

The Adigeon legal team had handled the case in a manner that was positively Cardassian, presenting a compelling narrative. The jury had gobbled it up.  
  
The case was decided against the plaintiff.  
  
He closes the file when Selta knocks,  reminding him of his dinner commitment. He thanks her with a tired smile.

While the food at his uncle's home is as always delicious, he barely tastes it.  
  
He spares a moment to wonder if the absence of his cousin Iliana at the dinner table would have been as palpable had she gone to art school as she had originally planned.  He doubts it - they would still hear from her, know what she is up to, and she would still join them on occasion.  
  
Above all, they would know her safe.  
  
Instead, she has taken a deep cover mission for the Obsidian Order that they would not even be able to narrow down to the country had he, Kaleen and Tekeny not wielded all their combined influence to find out.  
  
She is in Bajor, presumably to infiltrate the resistance, and they avoid her name as if saying it aloud would jinx her to be caught out, but over and over, an Iliana-shaped hole seems to crop up in the conversation - dishes she would have enjoyed, stories she would have commented on, silences she would have filled. They become stilted, awkward for a minute before they find a safe topic to converse on, usually provided by Alon, terrified that Tekeny and Kaleen will break their armistice and end up in yet another shouting match.  
  
Today, however, he seems to be unable to come up with any, his mind still on the file has has read.  
  
Of course Kaleen soon notices he is preoccupied.  
  
"You seem like you left your mind at the office. Tricky case?" She asks.  
  
He shakes his head.   
  
"Not at all, trial for the embezzlement is tomorrow, not much else interesting happening”   
  
"Then what has you all pensive? You've barely touched your food!"  
  
"I received an inquiry from the Federation whether I'd be willing to take a case today."  
  
"The Federation?" Tekeny pulls up his eyebrows. "I didn't hear anything about a Cardassian getting themselves into enough trouble to need you!"  
  
"He's not Cardassian," Alon begins, then hesitates.  
  
If he tells them the truth, it may kick off the very shouting match he is trying to avoid.  
  
Luckily, Tekeny keeps the conversation going.  
  
"No? A non-Cardassian client requesting you? That could be quite positive for your career, if you prove yourself of international renown."  
  
"I'm still reading up on the details. How did today's briefing go?"  
  
As Tekeny speaks of Keeve Falor’s attempt to form a Bajoran government-in-exile in Alpha City, Alon hopes against all odds that his embarrassingly blatant attempt to change the topic has not been noticed, but soon enough he feels Kaleen's probing gaze.  
  
She's noticed his deflection.


	3. Lauren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter the noncon warning is for - be warned!

_She likes the way he looks at her, even outside of the therapy sessions, when he passes her in the halls._  
_He pays attention to her._  
_She likes the feeling, asks for more appointments with him._  
_They praise her for being so committed to her therapy._  
_Little do they know._  
_She can feel his eyes on her slowly developing curves, and it makes her feel pretty._  
_She feels even prettier when he puts his hands on her instead._

 

The trial does, indeed, go off without a hitch - the offender has learned his lines well, an apparently heartfelt speech of how he has seen the error of his ways and realized that he has put his own selfish interests over those of the great state of Cardassia. He accepts his verdict with the grace the situation demands.  
  
The whole thing takes an entirety of twenty minutes.  
  
When he returns to his office, a short matter of inheritance comes before him, which he navigates with practiced ease, and a custody argument that requires more of his skill - children are always a sore topic on Cardassia.  
  
The morning passes quickly, and he has no set appointments after his lunch break, which he shares with Selta, a quick meal at, this time, his desk.  
  
He should be arranging meetings, make inquiries with his contacts if there is a case that could use his attention.  
  
Instead, he finds himself drawn back to the case files.  
  
The name of the patient and her family are redacted in this one, and he soon sees why.  
  
The girl, sixteen years old, had returned from the facility pregnant - and had named her doctor as the father of the child.  
  
An in-utero paternity test had confirmed the accusation.  
  
The criminal trial for the statutory rape is referenced by file number, so he requests that, too.  
  
The girl had been allowed to testify via video link, to not come face to face with her defendant, and only had one person asking her questions in deference to the sensitive subject matter.

 

> THE COURT: So, [redacted], you say that he initiated intercourse with you several times during your allotted therapy hours.  
>    
>  [REDACTED]: Yes, he did.  
>    
>  THE COURT: And you became pregnant.  
>    
>  [REDACTED]: Yes. Just like I planned.  
>    
>  THE COURT: Planned?  
>    
>  [REDACTED]: Yeah, I poked a hole in the condoms he always used. I wanted a baby. I thought he would love me forever if I had his baby.
> 
>  

Alon cannot help a wave of nausea.  
  
He wishes he thought she was lying - that it had been a clever if desperate ploy to have undeniable proof of his assaults - but is not sure either way.  
  
Quickly he scrolls to the end of the file. The doctor had plead guilty, been convicted and, of course, lost his license, but in Alon's opinion, his sentence of eighteen years had still been far too lenient.  
  
Shaking his head to clear it, he returns to the malpractice suit, where he learns that the family had decided to sue the facility for negligence given the repeated rapes had occurred on their premises in the first place.  
  
The director of the facility himself had come to testify.

 

>   
>      DOCTOR SEWICH: We are not in the habit of searching our doctor's desks, or monitoring their sessions. Doctor Cook came to us with excellent references, and usually received good feedback from patients and fellow personnel. All our staff had to judge the situation was the girl's behaviour, and no signs of distress were noted.  
>    
>      We fully complied with the entire investigation,  
>    
>      As soon as we became aware of the situation, Doctor Cook was suspended, and we terminated his contract immediately upon proof of his crimes.  
>    
>      We do not know if this case is a single one or if there have been other patients he molested, and we are in the process of making inquiries.
> 
>  

  
A second psychiatrist who worked closest with the patient had said:

>    DOCTOR VIRIAN: Truly, it horrifies me, and I wish I could have seen it. But I simply had no way of knowing. [Redacted] seemed in a better mood, acted out less, asked for more and longer sessions with him saying that he really helped her. I was even a bit envious that he'd gotten through to her so much - Cases like hers, given that adolescence is such a volatile emotional stage, are often difficult. To think that he was really (unintelligible)

After this, the legal team had played the sympathy angle masterfully once more - the facility offering to pay for the girl's continued therapy. It had been a gamble, could have been construed as a tacit admission of guilt, but it had paid off.  
  
None of the defendants had been held culpable.  
  
The case was dismissed.  
  
He is rereading the specific arguments of the lawyers, making notes of patterns, when he recognizes Kaleen's voice greeting Selta cordially.

"I think at this point he needs to be disturbed," he hears Selta say just a bit louder than necessary, and wishes for a moment he had had the presence of mind to ask Selta to tell her he was unavailable.  
  
Then he chides himself for such a thought - he should not abuse his power as her employer to force her to lie to someone she considers a friend, and he should not be avoiding Kaleen, much as he dreads the conversation.  
  
He hastily closes the file as his aunt saunters in.  
  
"So, I hear you're in need of an interruption?" She says with a smile.  
  
He knows the smile will not last when she realizes what he is working on.  
  
"My eyes do feel a bit strained," says Alon.  
  
It is even true, they are itching terribly, now that he thinks about it.  
  
He goes find his eye drops, buying himself some time, and feels pathetic for it.  
  
She stands in the door to the bathroom and watches him as he looks into the mirror to administer the drops.  
  
He misses the first time, wipes the drop off his cheek, tries again.  
  
The other eye goes quickly enough, and he is out of excuses.  
  
"You've been really engrossed in this one," Kaleen says, sharing her own observation as much as Selta's.  
  
"I suppose I have," Alon agrees.  
  
"So, let's hear it. What does a Federation citizen want with a Cardassian lawyer?"  
  
"For me to represent him," Alon says.  
  
Kaleen is not impressed, raises her eyebrow at him.  
  
"It's a malpractice case," he says, and it feels like an admission.  
  
"Legal malpractice? I suppose it would make sense to find a lawyer abroad, who would definitely have no connections to anyone involved …" She trails off, the gleam in her eyes that tells him she’s already starting to consider strategies, expecting him, as he usually would, to supply her with details for her to incorporate into her plotting.  
  
They have done this a hundred times before, after all.  
  
For a split-second, Alon considers going along with her conclusion, but he can't bring himself to.  
  
"Medical Malpractice, actually."  
  
That stops Kaleen cold.  
  
"That is ... completely out of your realm of expertise,” she says diplomatically.  
  
"The thought has occurred to me," He responds.  
  
"But you did not decline immediately,” she asks in disbelief.  
  
"No, I didn't."  
  
"Spare me your non-answers,” she snaps, so he volunteers some information and braces himself.  
  
"Apparently no Federation Lawyer is willing to take up a case against the facility anymore."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"There have been three previous malpractice suits. It appears their legal team is quite shrewd."  
  
"That cannot possibly be everything. Three suits should not deter a lawyer with a shred of true ambition."  
  
That was an angle Alon had not even considered yet, but Kaleen's interrogation does not stop.  
  
"So, who is this person?"  
  
"Middle class family."  
  
"Middle class," Kaleen repeats flatly.  
  
"That's what I did say, yes."  
  
"Any notable connections?"  
  
"None that I know of at least."  
  
"You are telling me you are considering to take up a case outside of your field for a family with no influence or connections whatsoever."  
  
Alon nods.  
  
"In the Federation, where they drag out everything in public."  
  
Alon nods again.  
  
"You cannot be serious. This does not suit you one bit, Alon!"  
  
Alon says nothing, just looks at her.  
  
"Why?" She asks.  
  
He considers lying, again. To tell her it was to challenge himself, to test his limits. She might accept that.  
  
"I think it may be the right thing to do."  
  
"When did you become such a philanthropist?" Kaleen asks, her voice mocking, but her eyes are betraying her despair.  
  
"Apparently yesterday morning," he deadpans.  
  
"I think this is a terrible idea. Please, Alon. Think of your career. Your inquisitiveness has already been noted, and there's only so much eccentricity the system will tolerate. Don't do this," she pleads.  
  
"Thank you for your input," Alon says. "I will take it under advisement."  
  
She looks as if she has been slapped, and a part of him cannot blame her for it. She has mentored him since he took the first of her classes, certifying him as officer of the law, back then to ensure his promotion to Gul, and even more so once he went into the reserve to become an arbitrator and nestor instead, and he has always valued her advice - but she also always let him rely on his own judgment once she had said her piece.  
  
Until now.  
  
  



	4. Jack

_The construction workers outside may as well have taken the jackhammer to his skull instead of the pavement - he’d prefer it, in fact, it would be over sooner and could not possibly hurt more that the incessant noise boring its way into his brain._  
_He turns to the nearest orderly._  
_“Close the window.” He says. “Please,” He squeezes out between clenched teeth a heartbeat later, knowing they insist upon this sort of thing in this place._  
_“Some fresh air will do you good,” the man says dismissively._  
_Wrong answer._  
_He grabs the girl next to him, holds her tight, places a hand on her jaw and makes direct eye contact with the orderly before repeating his demand._  
_“Close the window or I snap her neck!”_  
_The orderly hastily complies._  
_He lets the girl go and she turns to him,_  
_“Was that really necessary, Jack?” She whispers, looking more resigned than annoyed._  
_He does not dignify the question with more than a firm nod - It was necessary._  
_It’s the only way to get things done around here._

  
Alon does not sleep well that night, and finally decides, after hours of tossing and turning, to just stand up and get some work in peace and quiet. When he steps into the office, however, Selta is already there despite the early hour.  
  
He turns down her silent offer to talk.  
  
As much as he appreciates it, he still feels all talked out from yesterday.  
  
He throws himself into the work instead.  
  
Despite the fact he is rather sure he has correctly discerned the methods Adigeon Legal team prefers to employ, he decides to give the third case file a read before returning to the paperwork about Miss Douglas.  
  
He tells himself he is truly not procrastinating.  
  
The patient in this one appears to be hyper-intelligent, but shows a severe lack of social skills, is aggressive, argumentative. He has dropped out of school before attaining a diploma due to the same reason, and his issues have lead to his parents still being his legal guardians despite the fact he had reached the Federation age of majority several years ago. He had successfully earned yet another referral from another psychiatrist, and his parents had finally decided that an in-patient treatment would be best for him.  
  
Every time the physician defendant uses the word "noncompliant" in his deposition, Alon grinds his teeth a little harder until he forcibly relaxes his jaw. What he reads of the treatment, and gleans from between the lines, does only seem to have one aim - Unquestioning obedience.  
  
The patient's resentment for both society as a whole and his parents specifically shine through everything he says:

 

>   
>  MR JACK PRYCE: Had I come out of that hellhole "Mr Productive member of society" as my parents hoped, they would not have cared about what methods it had taken to achieve it. The only reason we're here now is because it didn't work, because I refuse to become a nice little compliant little gear in the machine of capitalism!

He looks at that sentence until it blurs before his eyes.

A plop from his speakers catches Alons attention - a window has popped up on his screen, a chat client that he is rather sure had not been installed on his computer a few hours ago.

"Hello, Alon Ghemor," a first message says, from someone with the chat handle "Jack"

He blinks.

And here he had prided himself in his digital security.

"Hello, Jack." The name is undoubtedly fake, a reference to Jumping Jack Flash, perhaps, or simply to the file he has just opened, but he might as well play along until he has more information.

"Hear you've been making inquiries into the Adigeon Hellhole."

"I have."

"Why?"

"Have you not heard of that, as well?"

"Rumors, of course. I want confirmation. Are you taking up a case against them?"

"I am considering it."

"Good."

Another plop, his e-mail program this time, a mail from an address with no name, merely a combination of letters and numbers - a burner, undoubtedly - with a large attachment.

"This is everything we've been able to collect."

"And just who is “we”?"

"A group of people who hold a vested interest in seeing the facility burn to the ground - or at least close up. "

Alon hesitates, wondering how to respond, when another message pops up.

"Give them hell, Alon Ghemor."

"I have not yet decided whether to take the case."

"Haven't you?"

The chat window closes on it's own, and Alon wonders what the hell just happened.

His antivirus program, run over the files, tells him nothing, but someone who had so easily breached his firewall could presumably fool that, too.

It could be a trap.

He finally digs out an old laptop he'd long since replaced, but which still works, downloads the files onto it and then carefully disconnects it from any network before he opens them.

It's a latinum mine, resources it would have taken him weeks to gather.

Lists of sympathetic doctors who may be willing to stand as medical witnesses.

Links to medical journals discussing the validity of treatment methods, references to authoritative textbook methods, attendance lists of medical conferences discussing them, the names of the doctors who work at the Facility highlighted.

His time problem just got a whole lot easier.

He is in a good mood when he hears Tekeny's voice from the front, gets out a bottle of Kanar and two glasses.

He has been expecting Tekeny to come, he had often joined him in his office in the past few months, escaping the tense atmosphere at home, and after his argument with Kaleen, the temperature there would have dropped another few degrees.

Alon has been glad of their regained closeness - Tekeny had been his mentor in the military, but once he had gone into first the reserves and then the law, he had always had more to talk about with his aunt than his uncle, and that had pained him a great deal - but wishes it had not come at such high a price.

Selta says her goodbyes with a playful admonishment not to overdo it.

"She's worth her weight in latinum, that one," says Tekeny warmly when they hear the door click closed. "Hold on to her."

He sounds positively wistful.

"Your interviews are not going well, I take it?"

"Not really, and Nelissa's maternity leaves begins in a few weeks."

"You can always try to poach Selta."

"Don't tempt me!"

Tekeny laughs.

"But honestly, she'll happily stay with you until she retires. I'll have to keep searching elsewhere, I'm afraid."

"I'll keep my ears open," promises Alon as he pours them each a generous measure of liquor.

Tekeny swirls his about, takes a thoughtful sip, talks a bit of the Bajoran situation and how it has made some of his fellow Legates unbearable, but he still seems lost in thought.

He finally looks up.

"And what have you been up to?"

"Oh, nothing but research about the Federation case so far."

"About that," says Tekeny, hesitates.

"I really think Kaleen is right. You should let someone else handle this one."

"And why is that?" Alon asks, cannot help but feel betrayed.

Kaleen's objections he had expected.

Tekeny's he had not.

"Kaleen and I made some inquiries."

Alon raises his eyebrows at that.

"Their board of governors has some rather influential members. And the last lawyer who took up a case against them died shortly after in a car accident. Brake failure."

"Was there any proof of foul play?"

"No,” Tekeny admits. “But it is suspicious”

"It’s still merely conjecture."

"And there are, of course, the political implications," Tekeny continues undeterred. "The Bajorans have been making waves in Alpha City, and gaining attention Cardassia cannot afford them to have. The press will be closely watching anyone Cardassian, and this facility, especially given the last three cases, will only add to that.”

Tekeny takes a visible breath before finally concluding: "Either you will be the first Cardassian to represent a Federation citizen in a Federation court and lose for the whole world to see, or you will anger a lot of rich and powerful people for no noticeable advantage. There is no way you can truly win in this."

Alon does not know whether to laugh or to cry. For months now he has attempted to play mediator between Tekeny and Kaleen, and now they've found common ground all on their own - against him.

"This must have been the most you and Kaleen have talked since your daughter left," He says, unable to keep the bitterness he feels out of his voice.

"You might even be right about that," Tekeny admits with a wry smile, still staying infuriatingly calm.

"You let Iliana make her own choice," Alon says, and feels grimly satisfied to see his uncle flinch at the sound of her name. "Why will you not afford me the same courtesy?"

"Because I don't want to lose you too!" Tekeny shouts, then buries his face in his hands.

When he looks up, his eyes are moist.

"I applied for leave for her birthday, because I always do. Didn't even stop to think. Today I got confirmation it has been granted. But instead of spending it with my little girl, I will be in a far too empty house with my wife who cannot forgive me for not making sure she'd be there to celebrate it with us! And I can't even blame her!”

He looks down, then, murmurs his words more than he speaks them:“I'm not sure I can forgive myself."

This hits Alon like a blow to the stomach.

He has harbored his own doubts whether supporting Iliana in going to the order, letting her make her own mistakes, has been the right choice - but he'd had no idea Tekeny felt similarly now, after he'd been even more vocal in her support.

"I miss her too," Alon admits, and for a second wishes he could give in.

Spend the night reminiscing with Tekeny over that bottle of Kanar.

He knows he cannot.

"But I will not be basing my decision on your feelings of guilt."

"I see," Tekeny says, and takes his leave soon after.

His half-finished glass sits on the desk, and Alon stares at it for a long while.

 


	5. Sarina

_She knows they don’t like how little progress she is making, that she still isn’t speaking to anyone here._   
_She doesn’t like it either. She wants to speak, make friends, like the others, but she can’t._   
_Keeping up with her coursework is the one thing she can do, she can succeed in, so she sits in the far back of the classroom and studies._   
_“That’s a very pretty fountain pen you have there,” the teacher says, and she ducks her head even lower, tries to concentrate on her writing, hoping he will pass her by, single out someone else, but he stops in front of her desk._   
_She can feel his shadow looming over her, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath before forcing herself to look up at him._   
_“Do you like it?”_   
_She nods and immediately wishes she had shrugged instead._   
_She is not the kind of girl who lies, but letting them know is dangerous._   
_Just as she feared he plucks the pen from her hand, mid-word, and she cannot voice a protest no matter how much she tries to force her throat to comply._   
_He walks back to his desk at the other end of the room, then turns to look at her._   
_“You want it back?” He asks._   
_She nods, feels her eyes and the tip of her nose burn because she knows what is coming._   
_“If you want it back, you have to ask for it loud enough for me - and everyone in this room - to hear.”_   
_She will never see that fountain pen again._

 

With a clear mental model of how the Adigeon Retreat's Legal Team operates, Alon once again tackles Sarina's medical history.  
  
While still thought of as primarily shy during her toddler years, her inability to connect to classmates and talk to the adults in primary school had revealed itself to be a deeper issue.  
  
Both a detailed medical examination and a recording of her, taken without her knowledge, but only shared with her permission - Alon silently nods in approval of that - had confirmed that there was no physical reason for her inability to speak.

> It is our conclusion that Sarina Douglas suffers from Selective Mutism. Since written tests and her homework have proven she is still able to follow class material, even appears ahead of her grade in reading level and math, it is our recommendation that she be given some time to acclimate to her new scholastic environment.
> 
> Should this not prove sufficient, the option of therapeutical treatment should be revisited.

No improvement had come.  
  
Sarina had discovered an interest and talent in singing, and while she had been able to, eventually, speak one-on-one to her vocal coach, group recitals or conversations with her fellow students were still an impossibility.  
  
Finally, she had taken her parents up on their offer to find her a therapist.

>   
>     My therapy goals by Sarina Douglas  
>   
>     I want to talk to the other girls at my singing lessons  
>     I want to talk to teachers and ask questions in class  
>     I want to talk to other students and make friends  
>     I want to be able to answer questions from a doctor myself when I'm sick, and with words, not just nodding or shaking my head

Progress, however, was slow in coming, and she herself had done research on the internet and suggested the Adigeon Retreat, hoping they could give her the tools for improvement during the school holidays, so she wouldn't lose any time there.  
  
The treatment report once more makes Alon's blood pressure rise.

> As the patient continued not to speak to her therapists, we attempted motivating her to speak with emotional incentives.

When she had been released, she been unable to speak to anyone - even her own parents.   
  
Alon cannot blame her.  
  
Jack was right.  
  
He had long since decided to take the case - if the family still wanted to hire him.  
  
For lunch, he insists upon taking out Selta, claiming he needs a second opinion on a restaurant that may serve well for future working lunches.  
  
She raises her eyebrow, but humors him and goes along with the deception.  
  
"Legate Boket has called, making inquiries if you would be available to serve as nestor for his son in an upcoming trial."  
  
Suvad Boket is a brat who frequently got himself into trouble, but usually the cases involving him, given his father's high status, never made it to an actual trial, merely arbitration - Alon had served as mediator for several of his blunders - so for him to actually need a Nestor, he must have fucked up spectacularly. Alon cannot deny a certain degree of curiousity, but he is still rather quite glad to have a legitimate reason to not have to bother with him.  
  
"You will have to tell him I am busy with another client."  
  
"You will be taking the malpractice case, then?" She asks, smiling.  
  
"Yes, I will - if they still want me to."  
  
"I'm sure they do."  
  
An airpe-Videocall is easily arranged - He wishes a stronger measure of who he hopes are his future clients, and to give them a chance to look at his face, too.  
  
"Good morning," He says as the camera picture loads.  
  
He is surprised, for a moment, to see Sarina in the background.  
  
The girl waves at him gingerly, nothing more than a wriggle of her fingers, not looking at the camera.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Douglas," Alon adds, and her eyes flick up, not quite to the camera, but presumably to the screen.  
  
Alon shuffles with his papers, makes it look like he is sorting them out.  
  
"I have reviewed the files you have sent me and did some research of my own. I do believe you have a case."  
  
Perhaps he is imagining them holding their breaths.  
  
"If you wish for me to represent you, I will do it," he says, looking directly at the camera.  
  
The parents turn to the girl.  
  
"What do you think, Sarina?" Mrs Douglas asks. "Do you want us to go through with this?"  
  
Sarina seems to think for a moment, then looks straight at the camera before she nods, conviction in every line of her body.  
  
Alon asks Selta to book him a flight as soon as the call ends.

It is her who sees him off a few days later, hugs him at the gate, promises to hold down the fort while he is gone and tells him to call as soon as he gets there, reminds him to not bury himself in his work too badly, even sneaks him the address to a club. He appreciates it all, he does, but his smile still feels strained.  
  
He has not heard from Tekeny or Kaleen and wishes he was surprised about it.


	6. The Nurse

_The nurse knows exactly what she has become._   
_She feels like a smuggler these days, her goods what little kindness and affection she can afford to offer those supposedly under her care, but it is not enough._   
_It never will be._   
_The patients suffer under those who have been given unchecked power over them, and she is complicit._   
_Much of her pay goes home to her family._   
_Often she sends more than she can truly spare, a penance she knows cannot make up for what she is._   
_A collaborator, in truth if not in name._

He arranges for a short meeting with Mr and Mrs Douglas practically as soon as his flight lands to sign the contract so that, mindful of the statute of limitations, they can file their suit as fast as possible.  
  
Once that is done, the clock begins ticking.  
  
Alon cannot help but feel the weight of the situation - he is working against an entire team of lawyers, all of whom have more experience in the courts as they are held here, and much as he'd like to say he can easily beat them at their own game from sheer experience, his confidence is waning.  
  
A call from Selta is a welcome interruptions for his brooding.  
  
"Do I need to arrange for an excavation crew?" She teases when she hears the obvious strain in his voice.  
  
"The mountains of paperwork are still manageable and have yet to bury me," he reassures her.  
  
"It's that yet I'm worried about!" she says before switching to professional matters, updating him on calls received and reporting on research matters he has delegated to her capable hands.  
  
Once the business is done with, her tone turns playful again.  
  
"So, have you checked out the club yet?"  
  
"I haven't found the time," he says. It is easier to claim, even though they both know he could have made the time.  
  
"I think you should. Some stress relief might do you good, especially because it is so much easier to find in the Federation."  
  
That it is also much less dangerous stays unsaid.  
  
A part of him is tempted to point out that this is hardly appropriate for a secretary to say to her employer, but it would make him a hypocrite.  
  
Selta had taken him under her wing once she had realized that he, like her, preferred the company of his own gender, and, unlike her, had neither any idea where to search for willing partners with the same inclinations, nor any experience to navigate the situation even if he knew where to start. He has been pathetically grateful for it, finding easy acceptance from her when he has yet to dare talk to his family about it.  
  
He supposes they suspect.  
  
"You might be right," he finally says, and soon says his goodbyes.

The knock at his door is so soft he barely hears it.  
  
He opens the door to a young woman, he would guess early twenties, with long brown hair that does not fully cover the earring she wears. She is clutching a folder with both hands, running a thumb over it incessantly. Her shoulders are hunched, and she is not quite looking at him.  
She's a Bajoran, and she is obviously terrified of him.  
  
Yet she has still sought him out.  
  
He makes himself small, as nonthreatening as possible, as he invites her in and then sits down behind the table as far from the door as he can to give her a clear line to the exit.  
  
She sets the folder down and pushes it across the table.  
  
He waits until she has pulled back her hands before he reaches for it. He opens it to find an employment contract with the Adigeon Retreat.  
  
"Find me a loophole and I will tell you everything I can"  
  
He flips through it.  
  
The Non-Disclosure-Agreement is extensive and thorough.  
  
It takes him an hour of perusing both the agreement and the current law while the Bajoran fiddles with her phone on the matter before he finds it.  
  
But he does, shows it to her, and she begins to speak, first slowly, tentatively, pausing several times to collect her thoughts, then gushing like a waterfall.  
  
He takes notes as quickly as he can.  
  
They sit there the entire afternoon. She looks everywhere but at him as she recounts stories, answers his questions, tells anecdotes of her own.  
  
"That should be plenty, Miss Raako," He finally says as her voice starts going hoarse.  
  
She furrows her brows at that, perhaps because she did not feel finished, perhaps at his correct use of her name. He knew many of his fellow countrymen would not have bothered.  
  
"May I contact you if I have further questions?"  
  
She bites her lower lip, then nods and writes down her phone number, and, in addition, the times he can best reach her.

"Miss Raako? Do not feel you have to answer if you do not wish to, but I would appreciate if you’d indulge my curiousity.”  
  
She turns back around, still looking at the floor, which he decides to take as an invitation to continue.  
  
“If you were so scared of me, what made you come to me anyway?”  
  
"My girlfriend -” She stops, stares at him, chin pushed forward as if daring him to say something about it. He doesn’t move a muscle, and she continues.   
“- she has a daughter. she's twelve years old now, and she looks up to me. She told me she wants to be a nurse like me when she grows up. I will never to be worthy of that, not after how long I worked at that place. I'm complicit in their crimes already."  
  
Then she looks up, makes eye contact for the first time.  
  
"If I must be a collaborator, then I should at least collaborate with the lesser evil."

Alon supposes it's as much of a compliment as he could hope for.

What Raako Eshaat has delivered gives him a good start to finally outline his strategy, but the stress of the last few days has been wearing on him.  
  
He finally decides to take Selta's advice.  
  
Old habits dying hard, he first finds a nearby restaurant that suits his tastes and takes a taxi there. He restricts himself to a light meal, then takes several side roads, including taking three left turns to be certain no one is following him, before finally making his way to the club Selta had recommended.  
  
The average patron appears to be at least a decade younger than him, and while he has chosen his clothes to at least not look out of place in a Federation city, they do still make him stand out in here, where many either show what he presumes to be an appropriate amount of skin in this environment or even openly defy gender norms in their dress. They look relaxed, none of the air of caution that would fill a similar establishment in Cardassia.  
  
A sudden rush of envy, startling in its strength, makes him taste bile.  
  
He quickly moves to take a seat at the bar, realizing that standing in the entryway will draw him attention, and observes those around him carefully, trying to discern the social protocol. He hopes he will get away with not dancing, but has yet to figure out how to proposition someone without the subtleties Cardassians quickly learn to employ.  
  
A young man instead sidles up to him, not the slightest bit circumspect.  
  
He is terribly pretty, in a lanky sort of way, with bright eyes, dark hair, and brown skin that should make for a gorgeous contrast with his own paleness should he take him to bed.  
  
His proposition is as tempting as it is pornographic and has Alon achingly hard within seconds - it takes him only a split-second to decide to invite him back to the hotel room with him.  
  
He watches in approval as the young man arranges for check-ins with a friend - apparently some measure of caution is, indeed, observed even here.  
  
He forces himself to relax when his companion makes no secret of his interest, letting fingers trail over his pants in the taxi, and reciprocates by putting his hand on the small of his back in the lobby, which earns him a dazzling smile.  
  
It is thrilling, in a way, to not be hiding the slightest bit for once.  
  
Their encounter is quick, but satisfying, and the young man leaves with a bounce in his step.  
  
Re-invigorated, Alon decides to spend a few more minutes on his work, and quickly becomes immersed.  
  
When he can no longer suppress his yawns, he blinks at his phone, blearily noting it is nearly midnight and he desperately needs sleep.  
  
It is only then that the date catches his attention, and he freezes.  
  
"Happy Birthday, Iliana" he mutters as the clock strikes 12 and buries his face in his hands for a moment before forcing himself to get up, get under the shower, and crawl into bed.


	7. The Lawyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have read A Stitch in Time will be very familiar with the first scene, I adapted it for my own purposes.

_He moves without thinking toward his fallen classmate until something wet hitting his face stops him in his tracks._   
_The exercise was not to lose his place, not to break formation, and he has failed it._   
_His instructor’s spittle mingles with his sweat and runs down his cheek, and he only just stops hot, burning tears of humiliation from joining them._   
_“Step forward, Five” the instructor says, gently, but he barely hears it._   
_“Stand in front of me” repeats the instructor._   
_He finally obeys, wary._   
_He will be used as a lesson, he knows it by the look of the smile on his instructor’s face which he cannot look away from._   
_“I want you get me off of my place without losing yours,”_   
_An impossible task to pay for having failed the original one, perhaps?_   
_He does not know._   
_His feet are rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed upon the instructor’s half-smile for what feels like hours._   
_Then Ten loses his place, giving him a stay off execution, and he is pathetically grateful._

Alon does not know enough about the average house of a middle class Federation family to tell if the home of Mr and Mrs Douglas is typical.  
  
He is here to prepare the three of them for their depositions, and though they could have easily done so in his hotel room, he suggested - and Mrs Douglas had quickly agreed - to give Sarina the home advantage for their first official meeting.  
  
In the hallway, there are plenty of pictures of the girl he recognizes as Sarina framed on the wall, some candids, some portraits, some alone, some with other members of her family.  
  
In the living room he takes note of several books of sheet music lining the shelves between fiction, nonfiction, and several board and card games.  
  
The anamnesis had mentioned being able to interact more with her fellow students at her voice lessons as one of her personal goals for her therapy, and one of her reasons for agreeing to go to the Adigeon Facility during her school holidays.  
  
It will be the first time he is meeting her in person, and he cannot deny a certain degree of curiosity.  
  
Had picking him been a whim, an attempt to see how far her parents would go to help her, perhaps, to reassure herself of their continued care?  
  
Or had there been more behind the choice?  
  
He finds himself seated at a large table which he presumes the family takes their meals at. Mr and Mrs Douglas sit down across from him after Mr Douglas has served them all coffee and handed his daughter a mug of cocoa.   
  
Sarina Douglas is pale enough that she could have passed for a Cardassian were it not for her blond hair, which she continuously twirls between her fingers or runs her fingers through, which has left visible traces, leaving her hair looking slightly tousled. Darkened skin under eyes speaks for trouble sleeping, which he can fully understand. Her clothing is neat and feminine, but it hangs off of her as if she has recently lost weight. Her posture is slightly slouched.  
  
She looks exactly like the traumatized child he thought she should be, which somehow only deepens the mystery.  
  
While she nods at him in greeting, she looks more at the general vicinity of his face than actually at his eyes before she drops herself into an armchair near him, obviously not expecting to be part of the conversation.  
  
He lays out the procedure in rough strokes while he keeps sneaking looks at her.  
  
Soon enough he notices that she keeps sneaking looks right back.  
  
Curiosity. Well, that is a good start, at least.  
  
He makes it a point to address her directly when referring to her.  
  
"You will be able to give your deposition in writing. Given that you are still rather young, and the obvious difficulties with a public testimony in your situation, we may be able to avoid a court appearance for you entirely."   
  
She nods at that, and her parents look visibly relieved as well.  
  
Despite his attempt to make things brief, the coffee can is fully depleted by the time he is done.  
  
He once more impresses on them that their case will, to a large part, depend on those depositions.  
  
When Mrs Douglas gets up to make some more coffee, He turns to Sarina, wishing that Selta was here - she had always been better at the human element than him.   
  
"Your parents mentioned that you were the one who had the idea of retaining me as your lawyer for this matter."  
  
She nods tentatively, a minute movement he might not have noticed had he not been paying close attention.  
  
"I would be curious as to why you chose me."  
  
She holds a single finger up, a sign to wait, before she dashes away, soon returning with a pencil case and a notebook.  
  
With a glance at her for permission - she nods, this time more visibly - he flips through the little book, which, he soon discovers, is filled with pages upon pages of neat, loopy handwriting carefully aligned in exact hand-drawn spreadsheets.  
  
So much for his theory of this being a whim. If it had been an attempt at manipulation, it had been an incredibly work-intensive one.  
  
She has apparently begun documenting trials about four weeks back.  
  
Soon the first nestors are crossed out, and he also notices she stops noting who was conservator in which case - Had she, correctly, surmised that they do not, in fact, serve the client, but the state, and were as such less relevant to her lawyer search?  
  
The first marked names - with what appears to be a felt tip pen in a soft blue, as opposed to a classic highlighter - begin soon after.  
  
Then those, too, are weeded out until only three remain, his own name among them.  
  
Mrs Douglas sets down a coffee mug in front of him, but does not say a word and Sarina, without looking up, turns it around so the handle points to the left instead of the right.  
  
She has noticed he is left-handed. Once more impressed with her powers of observation, he turns his mind back towards her work.  
  
The next analyses are more in depth, and she had begun using archived recordings of their cases on top of the current cases to get, he presumed, a larger data pool. He can practically watch as she, now including a lot more detail again, narrows down her choice based on minute distinctions - which distinctions those are he cannot identify - until finally his name is circled several times -  even after flipping back and forth through the relevant pages several times he fails to follow her thought process.  
  
He finally simply asks.  
  
"Why did you pick me, then? Mitel Hovat, for example" - he points at the name she had not crossed out until the very end - "regularly got more favorable results for those he served as nestor to than I did."  
  
He has, indeed, been careful to not be too successful, not so much as to draw unwanted attention.  
  
She visibly rolls her eyes, as if he has said something silly, then begins circling crimes in two different colors, then uses the same colors to mark the corresponding verdicts, crossing over old marks of a similar nature, and Alon sees it plain as day - she has figured out that the effort he puts into lowering the verdict for the accused is somewhat proportional to the type of crime they have committed.  
  
He will have to be more careful about his patterns if they are so easily discerned.  
  
"Well, Miss Douglas, this is quite brilliant work. If you presented these findings to anyone else, I would be in quite some trouble," Alon says with what he hopes is an encouraging smile.  
  
When her shoulders twitch, he believes, for a moment, that he has erred and made her cry, but when she looks at him, actually looks straight into his face, her eyes are dry.  
  
She lifts her hand to her lips, miming locking a door with a key, then gestures as if to throw the key away.  
  
An impish grin spreads across her face, and Alon himself cannot help but chuckle.  
  
He gives her a nod that is half a bow in response to her nonverbal reassurance.  
  
"Thank you, that is most is appreciated."  
  
While he cannot help wishing he could give her the key to her own voice back, he has no doubt whatsoever that she will, eventually, be fine - one way or another.  
  
She has survived an incredible ordeal with her sense of humour intact, and the mental faculties to perform an analysis that the  Obsidian Order would drool over - both at the tender age of Thirteen.  
  
He hopes that one day he will get to see how those traits develop further as she grows into adulthood and recovers further.     
  
She will be magnificent.  
  
He returns to his hotel with a swing in his steps, for the first time fully confident in his choice to take this case.  
  
That is, of course, when his phone rings.

He pulls it out of his pocket and recognizes his uncle's phone number.  
  
He picks up, gingerly lifts the phone to his ear.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Kaleen and I made some inquiries," Tekeny says, and Alon has a slight sense of Deja-vu, but the next sentence completely blows him away.  
  
"If you go back into the military, you could make Jagul in three years, Legate in ten - eight, even, if you marry."  
  
"Tekeny, what ..." His uncle does not let him finish.  
  
"Or if your heart is set on the judicial, you could become an Archon instead, the supreme court may even have an opening for you within the next decade"  
  
Alon wonders, for a moment, if he should feel tempted - but he isn’t, not the slightest bit.  
  
"No, Tekeny," He says, surprised by how easy it is, how firm his voice sounds, when he is not at all sure he is making the right choice.  
  
But he knows he is making the only one he can take and still look himself in the eyes in the mirror.  
  
"All right," responds Tekeny.  
  
Alon blinks.  
  
"All right? That's it?"  
  
"Well, no,"  
  
Alon braces himself.  
  
"We also need your room number."  
  
That ... had not been remotely on the list of possibilities he had considered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We're downstairs."  
  
"You are in Alpha City?"  
  
"Specifically, we're in the foyer to your hotel and the concierge is throwing me increasingly irritated looks."  
  
"234," Alon says, still dumbfounded.  
  
He stares into nothing for what might have been ten seconds and might have been an hour, does not move a millimetre as the elevator dings on his floor, as he hears two pairs of footsteps walks up to his door, combined with the noise of a rolling suitcase.  
  
He jumps at the knock - three raps on the door, precisely spaced apart - and opens the door to his aunt and uncle.  
  
Tekeny has the suitcase and a key for a second room.  
  
Kaleen is dressed for business and carries her briefcase.  
  
The two of them take possession of his room in a whirlwind, all the military efficiency of Tekeny and all the business aplomb of Kaleen, while all Alon can do is stand in the open door, still as a statue, and watch them.  
  
He cannot help but marvel at how they move around each other as if locked in a carefully choreographed dance.  
  
Tekeny pulls two chair back as he walks to the coffee machine to fiddle with it, and Kaleen sets her briefcase down on one and sits on the other before grabbing the phone to pre-order room service, dinner for three.  
  
Kaleen pushes the sugar at Tekeny as soon as he returns with with two coffee mugs and he pulls it closer and adds sugar to his mug without even looking up.  
  
Then, as one, they look at him expectantly.  
  
He hastily closes the door and sits down to join them.  
  
He can still find no words.  
  
"So, where do we start?" Kaleen asks, hands folded in front of her.  "You're most familiar with the particulars."  
  
"We?" Alon asks, barely dares to trust his own ears.  
  
"Yes. We."  
  
Tekeny's voice is gentle and it only adds to Alon's complete and utter confusion.  
  
"You tried to talk me out of this not five minutes ago!"  
  
"Yes, I had to try. I still feel this is a risk you should not be taking."  
  
"For the record, so do I," adds Kaleen.  
  
"But you have decided to take it," continues Tekeny.  
  
"All we can do now", Kaleen says, taking his hand and squeezing it; "is not let you face it alone."  
  
Between what Jack and his associates had collected, what Raako Eshaat had shared, and the three of them working the case, the Adigeon Legal Team never stood a chance.


	8. Aftermath

**Aftermath - The Lawyer**  
  
"This is not how I planned to gain a new assistant," Tekeny says wryly as Alon watches his identification documents go through the shredder and tries not to fiddle with the plaster covering his head wound.  
  
"So you will be taking Selta on?" One worry less, at least.  
  
"Yes, of course. We finalized the contract already when I visited her in the hospital. The fracture is healing nicely, she should be out in a few days."  
  
Alon nods gratefully.   
  
"I've convinced her to stay with us for a few days," Kaleen adds. "Ostensibly for an extended briefing on her new duties." She smirks half-heartedly, and Alon feels the corners of his mouth twitch, as well. They both know Selta would recognize the gesture for what it truly was.    
  
"Good," Alon says.  
  
For a while, none of them speak.  
  
"I'm sorry," says Tekeny, laying a hand on Alon's shoulder.  
  
"What for? The bomb? You didn't place it and without your warning things might have gone a lot worse."  
  
"It does, on occasion, pay to have contacts in the Obsidian Order," Tekeny says, and Kaleen, for once, doesn't flinch at the mention.  
  
"As for this," Alon points at his wounds "You warned me, tried just about everything to stop me. I bet you regret helping me now,"   
  
He direly wishes for a drink, but doesn't dare to with the concussion.  
  
"No," says Tekeny firmly. Alon stares at him.  
  
"We could help you. It's more than we could do for Iliana," says Kaleen softly.  
  
"And now you're saving me all over again," says Alon, nodding at the folder containing everything he will need for his new life at the other end of the country.  
  
They sit in silence.  
  
Watch the clock tick away their last few precious minutes together.

 

**Aftermath - The Nurse**  
  
Raako Eshaat steps into the registry office side by side with her girlfriend, their hands clasped together tightly, fingers entwined.  
  
 _I am not the potter, but the potter's clay_ , she reminds herself for what feels like the hundredth time.  
  
First the third floor, she thinks, and knocks at the right door.  
  
"Ah, there you are," the man says, greeting her a bit awkwardly, perhaps not quite sure by which name to address her.  
  
She rather sympathizes.  
  
"We were able to put a rush on it," he says to fill the silence, even though she already knows, and hands her the paperwork.  
  
She reaches out for it with a smile that is barely forced.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She looks at it, not quite sure how she feels about it, and the man hesitates for a second before he lets go, his hand wandering to his earring in search of something.  
  
Then he makes deliberate eye contact with her.  
  
"No, thank you. You helped to right a great wrong and it is unfair that this is what it led to. The Prophets know you did the right thing,"  He says firmly.  
  
She wishes she felt the same confidence, but speaks none of her doubts.  
  
"Prophets be with you," she says instead, and her girlfriend echoes the sentiment.  
  
"And with you both," answers the man with a nod and a warm smile.  
  
Now down to the first floor again.  
  
They share a look and a smile before her girlfriend knocks on the door, this time.  
  
It was not how they planned to do this, once upon a time, but it's what they have.  
  
She hands over her ID, and the paperwork from upstairs, and her girlfriend has a folder full of everything else that is needed.  
  
The formalities are all done quickly enough, and it is less than half an hour after she walked into it that Tanylek Nizem steps out of the registry office again, side by side with her wife.

 

**Aftermath - Sarina**  
  
The kitchen is suddenly silent but for herself, her parents voices cut off in an instant, and it is only then that she notices she’s been humming.  
  
Actually making a sound.   
  
Her eyes go wide.   
  
She tries to say something, force words past her lips, but fails.  
  
Thinks for a moment.  
  
Clears her throat.  
  
Tries to sing, instead.   
  
Her voice is a bit rough from disuse, and she does not hit all the notes, but when she turns to look at her parents, still, wondrously, making noise, they look at her as if it is the most beautiful sound they have ever heard.  
  
First her mother picks up the tune, then her father, awkwardly, more speaking then singing.  
  
Soon they are singing in a round.   
  
When it is over, they stare at each other, breathless, food preparation forgotten.  
  
She tries to say something again.   
  
It still doesn’t work, and that does make her cry in frustration while her parents hug her so hard she can barely breathe.  
  
But for the first time, it feels like things are going to be okay.   
  
They have this.   
  
It may not be flawless.   
  
But it is perfect.

 

**Aftermath - Jack**  
  
First, he compiles a quick guide for the lawyer on how to actually keep his systems private. Mostly.  
  
It takes him a bit to find a way to actually deliver it - looks like the man had the good sense to dump his old electronics with his old identity - but he always delighted in a challenge.  
  
The lawyer takes it with grace.   
  
“This will truly protect me from further digital intrusions?”  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
“That you know a way around every single one of those preventative measures.”   
  
“Good guess.”   
  
He cuts the connection with a smile.   
  
Next, he tackles the connection to the courthouse record system, fixes the hole in their firewall that has been bugging him for ages, and leaves without a trace, deleting his back door with a sense of achievement.   
  
Finally, he moves everything incriminating he had managed to collect on anyone remotely connected to Adigeon over the years - some of which he’d shared with Alon, some of which he hadn’t - to his archive.  
  
This fight is over.   
  
Time to find a new one.

 

**Aftermath - Lauren**  
  
She wakes up warm and comfortable, a big, muscular arm wrapped around her, the smell of coffee in her nose, while her alarm gets increasingly louder.  
  
“Morning,” says a deep voice behind her as she grabs her phone to turn it off.  
  
“Good morning!” She wiggles a bit, he lets her go.    
  
“Coffee’s be ready in the kitchen, machine’s on a timer, second door on the right, I need a shower,” she rattles off before climbing out of bed.  
  
When she walks into the kitchen wrapped in only a rather short towel fifteen minutes later, he gives her an appreciative once-over.  
  
She preens a bit.  
  
For a while, they sit in comfortable silence, and as soon as he finishes his coffee he gets up.  
  
“I think I’ll shower at the gym,” He says.   
  
She walks him to the door, grateful he isn’t being awkward about this.   
  
“Call me if you ever want some more fun?” He asks.  
  
“I just might”, she says with a smile, kisses him on the cheek.   
  
She probably won’t, and he knows it and doesn’t mind.   
  
Once he’s out the door, Lauren sits down on her recliner, phone in hand.  
  
There’s a mail from Jack, Subject line “FINALLY”.   
  
She gives it a quick skim, smile growing ever wider, and fully agrees with Jack - this was long overdue.   
  
Her usual routine follows - weather report, news site, which too is talking about Adigeon, social media, finally the rape survivor group that helped her so much when she first found it and that she now helps moderate.  
  
Here she stops for a second, thinks.  
  
Goes back to her e-mails, hits “reply”.  
  
“Think we should have something like this? For the other survivors of that Hellhole?”   
  
Jack’s response is, unsurprisingly, immediate.  
  
“Let’s do it.”

 

**Aftermath - Patrick**  
  
His niece looks very serious when she comes into the room and greets him.  
  
“I have some news,” She says.   
  
Patrick feels a hand clenching his sternum tightly as his brain cycles through possibilities, one worse than the other.    
  
“They aren’t bad”, she hastens to add. “But they might be upsetting. Would you like to hear them now, or have a Valerian tea first?”  
  
“Tea first.”  
  
Perhaps he should have suggested drops instead, because the wait is hard, but by the time he thinks of it, she’s already puttering about.  
  
He takes several deep breaths as he watches her - in on a count of four, hold for seven, out for eight. His chest still feels squeezed like a sponge when he watches her stir in the honey. She removes the spoon - she always remembers that he hates having a spoon in the way when he drinks - and sets the mug down in front of him.  
  
Wrapping his hands around it helps them not shake, at least.   
  
A part of him wants to sip the tea as slowly as possible, another to gulp it down as fast as he can, get it over with.  
  
He tries to find a middle ground.  
  
When the mug is finally empty, he puts it on the table and leans back in his chair.   
  
“Now I’m ready,” he says and wonders if he is lying. He isn’t sure. He hopes he isn’t. He doesn’t like to lie to people he likes.   
  
She takes a breath.  
  
“Adigeon Retreat has been closed after they lost a malpractice suit.”  
  
His heart hammers in his chest.  
  
“And they won’t open again?”  
  
“No. Definitely not. All the doctors who worked there have lost their license to practice.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
He hears his own voice as if it is someone else’s. It sounds hard. Sure. A bit angry.  
  
Then his eyes start burning, and he begins to cry.   
  
Soon big, heaving sobs shake his entire body while she softly rubs his shoulder, waiting for him to be done without pushing.  
  
With every tear he feels a bit lighter.

 

**Aftermath - Jules**  
  
The first time he hears about it, on the radio in the car, it barely registers.  
  
When his father smashes the off button immediately, that’s when he starts paying attention - and there’s plenty to pay attention to.  
  
The media is abuzz to such a degree even the teachers talk about it at school, about the terrible mental health facility that mistreated patients, that sounds more fit for a horror movie than reality.   
  
He hears it all as if through water, muffled, distorted.   
  
It cannot be, can it?   
  
He needs to know. He needs to.  
  
It takes a week of subtly dropped hints to convince his parents to go out for dinner alone, take some time for themselves, he needs to study for that chemistry test anyway, really, it is no trouble, there’s leftovers in the fridge, he will be fine.   
  
He hears the car leave the driveway and gives it another ten minutes just to be safe before he drops his notes, part of his careful ruse, and makes his way to his father’s study.  
  
It doesn’t take him long to find the folder - it has the imaginative label of “Jules”, and it is not the one in which his parents save his report cards.    
  
His stomach stirs for the first time when notices just how thick it is.  
  
He turns page after page, eyes wide, rooted to the spot.  
  
The car door slamming in the driveway snaps him out of it.  
  
Hastily he stuffs the folder back into the shelf, he needs to get back to the table quickly or his ruse will be ruined.   
  
He only makes it as far as the bathroom and promptly loses his stomach contents.  
  
It is here his mother finds him, makes cooing sounds at him, gets him back to his feet.  
  
He follows numbly as she leads him to his room, drinks the glass of water she brings him, lays the hot water bottle on his stomach.   
  
Does not bat her hand away when she lays it on his forehead to feel for a fever.  
  
As much as he wants to. 


End file.
